


G is for Gadgets and Gimmicks

by smoakmonster



Series: How I Love Thee: A to Z [4]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Awkward Flirting, Bookstore Owner Oliver Queen, F/M, Meet-Cute, Technology Fiend Felicity Smoak, olicity - Freeform, olicity au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-12 12:21:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13547229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoakmonster/pseuds/smoakmonster
Summary: What happens when anti-technology Bookstore Owner Oliver Queen meets Cute and Quirky Computer Geek Felicity Smoak? Bickering and flirting, obviously.





	1. Gadgets

**Author's Note:**

> An obligatory bookstore AU with a twist. Based on this prompt ([x](http://otpprompts.tumblr.com/post/64147388922/imagine-person-a-of-your-otp-works-in-a-library-or)), in which anti-technology Bookstore Owner meets Computer Geek, and bickering ensues. Enjoy!
> 
> This is what happens when you watch a lot of Hallmark movies. I also recently finished The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry, and so that book inspired some of this fic as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Thanks To: @pleasantfanandstudent for this adorable cover art!

 

  

**com∙pro∙mise (n.)**

  1. a settlement of differences reached by mutual concession



 

At six minutes to six on Sunday afternoon, the cheap, brass overhead doorbell rings for the first time since noon.

“We'll be closing soon,” Oliver calls from the back corner of the cafe area.

The high-pitched ding is an unwelcome interruption from his crucial task of determining which scones are worth wrapping up and saving for tomorrow morning’s rush hour (at most, twenty-five extra customers beyond his regular clientele) and which ought to be pitched. He starts disposing of the near-burnt scones shoved in the back row. He needs to remember to not let Rene handle any of the baking. That kid would eat rocks if it came down to it.

While Oliver is usually not opposed to whipping up some fresh dough for his customers, he has been on his feet for the last nine hours and would prefer to head home early and maybe catch an hour of television and actually get some of that alleged decent night’s rest everyone’s always telling him he needs. Everyone being mostly Thea and Rene.

Besides, after dumping out ten perfectly charcoaled pocket pastries, he still has a dozen or so left on the tray that are decent enough to sell. He shuffles the most stale pastries towards the front row for his 11AM executive assistant and personal assistant late-breakfast-early-lunch-snack-run personnel from the business tower across the street, those fresh-out-of-grad-school, starry-eyed do-gooders, who are always checking their emails and won’t be able to taste the difference.

He almost had one of those once.

He wonders how much easier his life would be if he had a personal assistant now.

Of course, he’d have to _pay_ said assistant, and he’s not exactly drowning in excess and privilege like he was a decade ago.

He’s the untrained owner of a small bookstore buried in a downtown city. And maintaining a struggling bookstore in a struggling economy is an arduous task at best and a depressing venture at worst. So, most work days are roughly somewhere in between. Mediocre. One day bleeds into the next until he forgets what day of the week it is until he checks the schedule.

When Oliver reads for leisure (ironically, he has very little opportunity to read for leisure), all the startup models and self-help books and even the occasional tycoon novel say the same thing: selling your soul to save your business should feel normal.

Unfortunately, the uncontrollable ingredient in this scheme called bookselling is the market.

He’s lucky if his small store makes it onto the back page of the monthly Starling City Living. Not that anyone buys magazines nowadays. Not that anyone has the time or desire to browse second-hand and third-hand books.

So he does what he can to keep his store afloat, cutting the staff’s hours and preserving day-old pastries and leaving that irritating antique bell afixed over the door. He’s been opposed to the doorbell from the start, but it came with the lease, and Thea thinks it’s good luck and swears it adds to the aesthetic of the place. Rene calls it a gimmick, and Oliver is inclined to agree with him. Nearly everything about this job is a gimmick.

As though on cue, a pair of heels pounds against old wooden floors, signaling the approach of his lone customer and pulling him up from behind the counter.

Oliver pastes on his best Customer Service smile, one truly useful skill he’s acquired thanks to an irregular attendance to dozens of high-end parties growing up. “What can I get for you?”

His smile slips when he sees her.

She, quite literally, takes his breath away.

While her fashion sense screams Complicated Order, she also exudes a soft demeanor and remains fixated on her small infernal device, wearing an adorable furrow between her eyebrows, thumbs flying a mile a minute.

The advantage of unhealthy technological immersion, however, is that it allows him to study her undetected. A Study In Scarlet of his own making.

His gaze travels slowly from her heels and blood-red jacket to her high blonde ponytail and feminine glasses and Neon Pink lipstick that is somehow flattering to her face. She wears so many shades of red that she looks like she escaped from a Valentine’s Day ad. He wonders if she’s one of those poor weekend executive assistants with a propensity for espresso and no social life.

She startles him when she finally looks up from her phone, and he recovers by trying to push one of his socialite smiles back onto his face, though it feels even more fake than usual.

The cute blonde throws out her question before he can repeat his. “Hi, could you tell me what the passcode is for the WiFi?”

What? He blinks. “There is no WiFi here.”

“What?” She sounds horrified, like he’s just told her her dog died. She seems peppy enough to be a dog person.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand--which, for me is kind of new. How exactly do you expect to run a business in the twenty-first century without accessible WiFi?”

He swallows. She sounds like his landlord. And his sales rep. And pretty much every other millennial who's miraculously managed to glance up from their rectangular deathtraps long enough to wander into this place.

He's annoyed that she's taking their side--and a bit irritated with himself for being attracted to her in the first place.

“Well, if you don’t like it, you can leave.” He doesn’t need the extra five minutes of labor and $3.50 profit her one cup of coffee was going to provide him anyway.

She flinches, and he regrets his gruffness immediately, but it’s too late. Her mouth pops open. She is clearly taken aback, and frankly so is he at his own behavior, that his pride has hurt a stranger and ruined a perfectly good sale.

She blinks a few times and then rallies enough gumption to tilt her chin up at him. “Fine.”

Before he has a chance to apologize, she spins and marches away, her ponytail flapping like a golden military flag. She is three steps from the door when a loud crackle of thunder shakes the room, and the sky opens up, unleashing buckets of water. Sudden gusts of wind begin spraying the rain sideways. The street is a wind tunnel of gushing water.

Oliver groans, moving around the counter to find his visitor in scarlet struggling to unfold her umbrella in as quiet and dignified a manner as possible.

“Your umbrella’s not gonna do you much good in this storm,” Oliver tells her.

Her shoulders tense again, this time with surprise but less agony.

He’s doing better. He can be civilized. He takes a hesitant step closer, softening his voice. “It should pass in a few minutes. Why don’t you grab a seat, and I’ll get you a cup of a coffee?” She shifts uncomfortably, avoiding his eyes. “It’s on the house,” he adds with a twitch of a smile, not that she notices.

She nods. “Thanks.”

The rain does not let up in a few minutes. If anything, it worsens. So Oliver devotes their extra time to concocting a supreme cup of coffee to make his guest feel better. (Any consideration he might have given to save face for the sake of his business is long forgotten.) He froths some half-and-half and at the last second decides to add honey and a sprinkle of cinnamon on top.

“I hope this isn’t too presumptuous,” he says when he reaches the corner chair she’s nestled herself into. “You look like a cream and sugar kind of gal.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Because I wear a skirt?”

“I…” He freezes. He honestly has no idea what to say to that.

She accepts the steaming cup with a teasing smile. “Cream and sugar is perfect. I just wanted to see if I could render you speechless, too.”

“I deserve that.” He crosses his arms and leans against the window, putting a small but safe distance between them.

She takes a few sips, and then her eyebrows pull together. For a second, he’s worried that maybe the milk’s turned sour. But then she says, “Oh wow. This is actually really good--not that...not that I was expecting it to _not_ be good. It’s just it’s so hard to find a decent cup of coffee these days. I don’t really consider myself to be a coffee snob--though, I don’t suppose anyone would consider themselves to be a _snob_ .” She lifts two fingers to make air quotation marks around the word _snob_. And the way her lips pucker and nose scrunches up makes her seem youthful and winsome.

“But honestly,” she continues, “the coffee at the office tastes like watered-down battery acid, and Starbucks is always so crowded and overpriced, and I’m already behind on this week’s data interface plans and…. I’m sorry. You don’t want to hear all of this.”

His lips twitch. Now that she’s apparently forgiven him, she really is quite the talker, isn’t she? “Actually, it’s kind of nice,” he tells her honestly. “You don’t mind if I start straightening things up? You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.” So what if he doesn't get to watch his hour of television tonight. So what if he doesn’t get to crash early. Sleep is overrated. Isn’t that why he owns a coffee shop?

“Thank you. I could use a break.” She visibly relaxes, sinking deeper into the chair.

“Boss keeping you busy all weekend?” He tilts his head toward the skyscraper across the road.

She hesitates, an uncomfortable look crossing her face. But it vanishes just as quickly. “Um...yes, you could say that.”

They shift into an easy, contended silence, as Oliver organizes the R through T shelf in literary fiction. He may not have finished his degree, but he knows Ra comes before Ru.

Eventually, he asks her about her work, and she chatters away, incessant and vivacious. While a third of what she says goes over his head, Oliver is unsure whether her job in the world of computer science truly is more exciting than his average, analog lifestyle or if she just possesses the natural ability to make everything sound exciting.

“Normally, I don’t like to brag about my job, but this week we have a really big sales pitch to make in front of our board of directors. My team and I have been slaving over this device for weeks, and a lot of company jobs are riding on the design. And I’m the one who’s going to be giving the presentation, and as you can see I tend to ramble….”

It takes him a moment to realize she’s waiting for a response.

“What kind of device is it?” he asks, glancing back over his shoulder to let her know he is fully engaged--or at least, as fully engaged as he _can_ be--in their mostly one-sided conversation. He notices the rain has stopped, but she no longer appears to be in a hurry to leave. Something warm settles in his chest.

“Oh, it’s a, um, biometric chip implant that hopefully can be embedded into any spinal nervous system and help repair paralysis.”

“Wow. Really?”

She shrugs. “That is the plan.”

“And you designed it?” He hops down from the ladder.

“Not me. One of my...colleagues. I’m more of a numbers girl. I do all the back-end coding to support the engineering design. I’m like the Crick to his Watson--though, really, I suppose I’m more of the Rosalind Franklin in this scenario, who was basically cheated out of her Nobel Prize.”

He blinks, feeling like he’s completely lost the trail of her thoughts.

Thankfully, she finishes with, “They discovered DNA.”

He nods once. “Right. I do know what DNA is.”

She smiles brightly, and at once he feels both more foolish and more worthwhile under her scrutiny.

As she begins slowly packing up her things, the _Lost Treasures_ section catches his eye. He picks up the book before he’s really made the conscious choice to do so. “Hey, I don’t know if you like to read or if your boss gives you time to read. I don’t even know if this is something that you would enjoy but…”

Wow, he is failing at this. Has it really been this long since he’s talked to a woman other than his sister about something other than her coffee order? Thea’s voice suddenly fills his head. _Geez, Ollie, just spit it out._

He shakes his head, stretching out his hand before he can change his mind. “Here.”

She stands and glances down at the book. _Code Girls: T_ _he Untold Story of the American Women Code Breakers Who Helped Win World War II._

“It’s a recent acquisition, and what you were talking about made me think about it. I know it’s not the same thing. I mostly read history books myself, and I just thought… You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to. And if you don’t like it, you can always bring it back. No charge.” Does he sound as ridiculous as he feels?

“Oh. Well, and I mean this in the nicest way possible, I’m actually not much of a reader. I mean, other than the occasional novel on my Kindle.”

His hand falls, and he tries to ignore the way his heart pinches strangely at the malicious word _kindle_. “Oh. Right. Of course.”

“But you did just give me a free cup of what is unquestionably the best coffee I have had in _months_. The least I can do is pay you for the book.”

She reaches for her wallet, but he stops her. “No, I mean, it was my suggestion so…”

She wears that adorable frown of hers, eyebrows scrunching together. “Last I checked, this is not a library. You’ll never make it if you just keep giving away your product. That’s like Business Management 101.”

He huffs a short laugh. “Consider it an apology. For the way I acted...earlier.”

She finally relents, tucking the book inside her purse. “Okay. But next time, I will be paying for my coffee.” She points a finger at him, silently demanding that he keep up his end of the bargain.

“Next time?” He raises an eyebrow, wishing his heart not to cling to an indifferent promise. _She is just being polite_ , he reminds himself. There is no guarantee he’ll see her again after today.

She tips her head, thoughtful and almost...flirtatious? No. That can’t be it. This is just part of her odd but sweet personality. “Despite your current lack of WiFi, I kind of like it here. This room has a nice, vintage, back-to-the-Victorian-Era ambiance.”

He smiles. If Thea were here she’d be graciously demanding a customer review for their online presence. Maybe he can pitch that as the company slogan at their next staff meeting. _Verdant Books: the right place for a nice Victorian Era experience._

“I'm Felicity, by the way.” She holds out her hand to him, and his heart beats a little faster at the way her slender, strong, perfect fingers feel wrapped around his own.

“Felicity.” He likes the sound of her name and the pleasing way his lips and tongue move together to form the word.

Even after their hands go still, she doesn’t pull away, and he doesn’t release her. An amused look crosses her face. “This is the part where you tell me your name,” she whispers playfully.

He clears his throat. “Right. Oliver.”

Is it possible her smile grows, or is he merely imagining things? “Nice to meet you, Oliver. Bookseller and Barista Extraordinaire. By the way, the term barista is not meant to be emasculating at all. It is a compliment of the highest order. If I were a queen, I would dub you Knight of the Java.”

She winces, clearly embarrassed, a blush blooming on her cheeks.

But Oliver laughs, a real, full laugh, something he hasn’t done in a long time. “That’s not a bad title.” Coming from anyone else, the title would have sounded cheap, like one of those paranormal teen books Thea is always pestering him to try. But coming from Felicity, the title adds another facet to her intriguing, gemmed character. After all, some titles are misleading; some titles are commemorative; and some titles are significant just by who their author is.


	2. Gizmos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Sorry for the delay posting this update. I came down with an illness the first week of February, so that set my writing back quite a bit. Anyway, I am doing much better now, and here is the second chapter. 
> 
> Thanks for reading as always. You all are a lovely group of faithful readers. Enjoy the second installment of this fic!

**com∙pro∙mise (v.)**

  1. to accept standards that are lower than desirable



 

The line at the _Verdant Books_ cafe is five people deep by the time she drags Curtis across the street for their pre-meeting coffee run. She knew she’d taken a risk stopping by before ten, but she hadn’t managed to find the time to brew her own coffee this morning. And she is not risking her immune system by willfully drinking liquid tar out of a styrofoam cup again. Besides, she’s pleased to see that business is booming, even if it means a delay in acquiring her drug of choice (and possibly seeing the owner).

“Um, is there no WiFi in this building?” asks Curtis.

Felicity elbows her friend in the stomach, shaking her head admonishingly. “We do not mention that here.”

“What?”

Curtis looks like he’s on the edge of a litany of questions, when another masculine voice startles her from behind...in the best way.

“Hello, Felicity.”

She whips around so fast she nearly makes herself dizzy. And, in truth, the moment she stops and stares at him, she does begin to feel light-headed...though she suspects that has very little to do with her own shaky center of gravity and everything to do with the gravitational attraction between them. Not that she presumes he finds _her_ attractive, but one does not need to be a physicist to realize that The Oliver Gravitational Constant is irresistible. He is the sun, and she is tiny dwarf planet Pluto; the further she gets away from him, the less potently attractive he appears. But standing this close within his orbit again, even across a countertop, drowning in an aroma of french vanilla coffee...his tug on her heart feels so strong.

Quickly, though perhaps not so covertly, she studies the amused twinkle in his sea-blue eyes and his jaw covered in, objectively speaking, the perfect amount of scruff (not that she’s ever considered scruff to be a quantifiable asset on a man, not until _this_ man); her eyes then scan down his insanely broad shoulders wrapped in that green apron with a little arrow crossing the _t_ in the _Verdant_ logo. Only Oliver manages to effortlessly wear an apron like both the July model chef in a firefighter calendar _and_ the charming boy-next-door, who bakes you cookies using grandma's secret recipe.

Just one facet of his persona can be a lot. And the combination of every idiosyncratic data point Felicity’s brain has decided to catalog and store and run diagnostics on…it’s a whole lot of _lot_ for her brain to process. Oliver is an array of sensory overload, leaving her stuck in an endless loop of system errors. High input, low output.

It doesn’t matter how many times she ventures into this quaint little place. Her reaction to him is always the same. She’d foolishly hoped that after weeks of drinking pretty much nothing but _Verdant_ coffee, her body would eventually become just slightly desynthesized to this man. Apparently today is not that day.

After what feels like a very long and socially awkward period of silence, Oliver is still watching her expectantly. Feeling her cheeks flush, Felicity realizes that she has yet to reply to his greeting. She swallows down her default reaction to babble. _Hi, you smell amazing! I mean, your_ place _smells amazing. Not that you smell_ bad… _Is that a new coffee flavor?_

Instead, she manages a breathy, “Hi!”

If Oliver notices her inner struggle, he doesn’t let on, kind businessman that he is, other than she _thinks_ those shy dimples peeking out from underneath the scruff deepen just a little. Not missing a beat, he asks, “The usual?”

She nods. “Please.”

When he glances to Curtis, an irrational pang hits her in the chest; she keenly feels the instant loss of his warm and steady gaze. “Are you one of Felicity's coworkers?”

Curtis snickers. “Well, I would hardly say we’re _coworkers_ , seeing as she pays me for--”

Felicity elbows Curtis again, ignoring his muttered cry, “Ow!” A sudden burst of boldness rushes through her, and she hastily makes introductions. “Oliver, this is Curtis. He’s the one I spoke to you about, who designed the chip implant.”

Oliver’s eyes widen, and Felicity watches the subtle shift in his demeanor, the way he smoothly transitions from indifferently hospitable to genuinely interested. He wipes his hand on his apron before stretching it out to Curtis to shake. “Curtis! Felicity’s told me a lot about you.”

“She’s told me virtually nothing about you,” replies Curtis. “Other than that the coffee here is amazing.”

“Okay,” Oliver chuckles, sending her a brief, soft look that she can’t read, but for some reason it sends her pulse racing in her throat anyway. “What will you have?”

“You know what, I’ll have whatever she’s having. Excuse the unintentional _When Harry Met Sally_ reference.”

When Oliver frowns, Felicity has to bite her lip to keep from giggling. Poor guy has no idea what Curtis is talking about. Over the past few weeks, Felicity has come to learn that Oliver’s general knowledge of pop culture is significantly below average. And he’s all the more adorable for it.

“I should warn you, Curtis, that Felicity likes a _little_ bit of coffee with her sugar.”

“Hey!”

Whatever additional comeback Felicity’s brain had planned gets lost the moment Oliver winks at her.  

“Alright, two Felicity Cappuccinos coming right up.”

Felicity blinks. “What was that?”

She didn’t think it was possible, but she swears Oliver starts blushing. In a split second, his usual easy manner and flirtatious confidence fades and is replaced by...something else, something softer.

He ducks his head as he says, “Oh, I just assumed you saw the chalkboard when you walked in…”

Like an socially inept pigeon, she spins, ponytail smacking her in the chin, trying to see the chalkboard near the front door. But she can’t read it from this angle.

Oliver’s voice has her turning back around.

“A lot of my regulars have been asking for sweetened coffee, so I started making the coffee I made for you that one afternoon. And since it’s easily become the most popular drink request, I just figured I’d add it to the menu and...well, it needed a name. I hope that’s okay.”

She swallows, quite honestly, for what has to be the two-hundredth time since walking into this store, at a loss for words. “You named a beverage after me?”

Oliver nods. “I’ve gotten a lot of good comments. _Sweet but not too sweet. Happiness in a cup._ Things like that, essentially.”

Felicity tips her head, giving him her best Serious Executive Board Member face. “Do I get a commission?”

“Um…”

Felicity smiles. She kind of enjoys the way she can still intentionally fluster him a bit, the same way he unintentionally turns her insides to goo. “It’s a joke, Oliver. I’m flattered.”

He sighs, visibly relaxed once more. “Well, good. It’s the least I could do.”

Oh, it is so not the least he could. It is so far beyond the least. The least he could do was let her walk out into the pouring rain and never speak to her again. The least he could do is not give her free coffee every other weekend or name specialty drinks after her or...look at her in that puzzled, bashful way of his, like his eyes are always asking her a question she really, really wants to know the answer to.

Kind of like the way he’s looking at her now. She’s pretty sure his eyes dart down to her lips, too, but it’s over in a blink, so she may have imagined that part.

The moment he walks away towards the espresso machine, she takes her first real breath. She’s getting better at this, better at handling her jumbled reaction to him, the way her stomach feels like a blender stuck on pulverize, the way her heart can’t seem to remember its modus operandi as a consistent pacemaker. Oliver is her own personal metal-detector, setting off every synapse into overdrive.

He returns with their coffees too soon and not soon enough. “How's it going with Daniel?” he asks.

“Good so far,” she says, handing him a few dollar bills to pay for both her and Curtis’s coffee. “I like the way he uses words, but so far most of what he has to say has been fairly predictable.”

“Give it time. He might surprise you.” And, of all things, the man has the audacity to wink at her _again._  If it was anyone but Oliver she might be a little creeped out. But it is Oliver, so naturally her skin turns five degrees warmer and her chest feels about ten pounds lighter.

Curtis finally chimes in again, and Felicity can almost feel his eyes bouncing like a ping-pong ball between them. “Okay. Are you two talking about a TV show or have you finally got yourself a hot date?”

“Neither. It’s a book.” She ignores what is surely a confused reaction from Curtis--and what she imagines might possibly, maybe, perchance be a concerned look from Oliver at the word _date_ \--by taking a sip of her coffee. Felicity shuts her eyes to the world for just a moment, savoring the perfect blend of milk and espresso beans and honey.

“Since when do you have time to read?” Curtis demands.

“Since I made time,” she answers. “ _Daniel_ is Daniel Suarez.”

“Wait, isn’t that the guy who gave that TED talk you hated about romanticized hacking--”

“Yes, but I am expanding my horizons. Oliver is very persuasive and very good with the recommendations.”

Oliver shrugs, at once pleasantly modest and still quietly seeking affirmation. “I do what I can.”

“Well, do you have anything new in Young Adult involving vampires?” asks Curtis. “Honestly, I've been stuck in _Twilight_ recovery for the last six years.”

“What's _Twilight_?”

“Do not answer that,” Felicity interrupts. “You are so better off not knowing. By the way, have you thought more about my offer?”

Oliver heistates. “I have.”

“What offer?” Curtis says in a suggestive tone, which makes the word _offer_ sound like something _so_ very different than what it actually is.

Thankfully, another customer walks up to the counter and steals Oliver’s attention for the next couple of minutes, so Felicity feels certain that Oliver misses the insinuation entirely.

“Seriously, what is going on with you two?” Curtis still whispers even when Oliver is safely out of earshot.

“Nothing is going _on_.”

Curtis look skeptical. “Mm-hmm. I’m pretty sure I could cut the tension between you two with a knife. And by tension I mean--”

“I know what you mean,” Felicity whispers back aggressively. “All that I am doing is trying to introduce a _friend_ to modern conveniences. Oliver is very...anti-technology. I don’t think he even owns a smartphone.”

“Wow. I guess opposites do attract, huh?”

Felicity shoots Curtis a glare just as Oliver makes his way back to them at the far end counter.

This _thing_ that she has with Oliver is a delicate dance. Every time she comes into this store, she asks him the same question. And every time he gives her the same answer. She’s wearing down his defenses slowly, though; she can feel it. Eventually he’s going to let her help him; it’s just a matter of time. A _lot_ of time.

Still, like all business sales pitches, one has to handle these things tactfully. Oliver is like a bear cub. If you make too much noise too soon, you’ll spook him. Or he might maul you to death. He certainly has the arms for it. Not that she’s noticed or anything.

Of course Curtis wrecking balls the whole thing in one sentence.

“Hey, Oliver, you ever think maybe this place could use a bit of fine-tuning?”

Oliver starts, his shoulders visibly tensing. Felicity has to physically restrain herself from face-palming. “Fine-tuning. What did you have in mind?”

Curtis launches into a rapid-fire rant that seriously rivals some of her own unprecedented babbles, arguing in favor of installing both hardware and software security. It’s a decent pitch, but Oliver’s eyes glaze over quickly. Somewhere in the hazy fog of five-syllable words, Felicity steps in to defend one friend, while trying to smooth things over with the other.

“It is a good idea, Oliver.”

“Felicity. We’ve talked about this.”

“We have,” Felicity agrees. “But it doesn’t hurt to keep talking about it.”

He huffs. But she can sense the humor has left him. Five minutes of techno lingo has worn him down, and he’s closing himself off again. She hates when he gets like this. She hates that her life passion drives him to this. Of all the men in all the bookstores in the entire city, it had to be analog-reliant Oliver Queen that she is doomed to spend her life admiring from across an antique countertop. Because she does admire him. She admires his bravery and willingness to stick to his principles (even if that does make him a bit obstinate and unrealistic).

He is the one mystery she is never going to be able to solve, an endless series of coded social cues and cryptographic gazes that she can never quite crack.

“I should have guessed this would be a hard sell, judging by the cash register,” remarks Curtis. “Is that a vintage Casio?”

Oliver just nods once. His arms are crossed, and he looks very uncomfortable.

“Yeah, no offense, Oliver, but your store looks like it’s from the ‘80s,” Felicity says in a playfully irked voice, to let him know she’s teasing. “And not the good part of the ‘80s, like Madonna and...well, leg warmers.”

He lifts his eyes to meet hers, and she sees the small spark of humor returning there.

“Seeing a business this poorly set up hurts me. In my soul.”

His lips twitch. “I think you’ll survive.”

She tries sending him an apology with her eyes, yet nothing in his expression tells her that he notices it. But she also doesn’t see him asking her to stay away. There’s always tomorrow.

“Well, we should head out.”

“Of course. Curtis, thanks for stopping by.”

“It’s been a pleasure,” answers Curtis. “And I mean, when the boss tells you to try a coffee place, you try it--”

Felicity elbows Curtis again and yanks up her coffee cup. “We gotta go. Bye!”

_Well, that was smooth._

She shakes her head as she turns away. _Error 404_   _Error 404_   _Error 404_ plays like a wailing siren inside her head.

As soon as they make it out onto the sidewalk, Curtis pounces on her like a lion. Seriously, she needs to talk to him about the art of subtlety. And the fact that _she_ is noticing this behavior is saying something in and of itself.

“Okay, am I missing something here? Why did you lie to that very handsome man?”

“I didn't lie,” Felicity whispers, even though they are definitely out of earshot now.

“You were evasive,” counters Curtis.

“Because. He thinks I'm an EA. What happens when he finds out I am...you know, much higher up the corporate ladder?”

“You mean, like, you _own_ Smoak Technologies?”

“Shhh!”

“At some point he's going to find out. Either you’re going to let slip your last name, or he'll see your face on a billboard.”

“We don't do billboards,” she grumbles, redirecting the conversation.

Thankfully, Curtis takes the bait. “Well, maybe we should. It’s old-school but a good kind of old-school.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

If only she could control her feelings with the same administrative finesse.

She promises herself she’ll tell Oliver. She _will._ Eventually. She just has to convince him not to hate her very livelihood so much. He’s brought her around to loving books she would never have touched. And she’s a better person for it. She owes him the same favor. He owes it to himself, whether he realizes it yet or not.

 

* * *

 

 

“Here ya go. A blondie for the Blondie.”

Felicity resists the urge to roll her eyes as one of Oliver’s insubordinate staff personnel with dark buzzed hair hands her her usual second cup of Saturday coffee. Rene. She’s pretty sure he’s the Rene kid Oliver has griped about once or twice. And with good reason.

The CEO in her sometimes wonders why Oliver bothers to keep arrogant and annoying employees, but she supposes everyone deserves a chance. Oliver is soft that way. And to run a business, sometimes you just have to hire _someone_. She knows what that dilemma is like.

Nestled in her designated corner of the bookstore, the little cardboard sign resting on top of the side table catches her eye again. RESERVED.

The word never fails to bring a smile to her face, to know that she will always have an Oliver-approved space in this store, that he’s carved out a literal nook in his world just for her. His generosity makes her want to do the same, to help him save his business from a haphazard economy, to keep him from losing his livelihood, to keep him safe and snug and right across the street from her. Wow, does that sound controlling? So maybe she’s gotten a little too used to Oliver Queen. She doesn’t want to let him go, and she doesn’t want to take them for granted. Not that there is a _them._

While Oliver remains apprehensive at best to the idea of technological overtake, Felicity also enjoys the simple, steady solitude that comes from being in this store, like the presence of the man himself. It’s also somewhat therapeutic, to be disconnected from the constant ding of her email notification for a few hours. When she does work here, she always brings the most boring aspects of her job with her, spreadsheets and memos that don’t require internet connection.

“Hey.”

Felicity starts, but manages to calm down her bodily reaction just in time to glance up at the source of the voice she knows almost as well as her own. He’s wearing a blue henley today, minus the apron, and honestly the shirt is doing wonders for his eyes, making them appear even more blue than usual, wide and open and full of hope, like a peaceful afternoon summer sky. He should only ever wear this. Always.

“Hey,” she replies with a smile.

She can’t help the way her heart flutters when he smiles back. “Busy today?”

“A little. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“Do you um...want to join me for a bit?”

He crosses his arms, looking a little mischief. “I am technically on shift.”

“Right. Wouldn’t want you to get in trouble with your boss for slacking on the job.” She tries to wink at him, but she’s pretty sure it just comes across as a weird delayed blink. So she kind of sucks at flirting.

Oliver chuckles anyway, bless him. “Truth be told, Speedy is generally more of the boss around here than I am.”

“Speedy?” The name doesn’t match anyone she’s ever met in the store, not that there is a substantial list, and it certainly does not describe Rene, who’s definitely in the running (no pun intended) for the part of tortoise in _The Tortoise and the Hare_. Maybe it’s his girlfriend. She gulps. _Oh, please don’t be his girlfriend._

“My sister, Thea,” Oliver explains. “She takes care of a lot of the paperwork that keeps this place afloat and manages the store on my days off.”

“Oh. How come I’ve never seen her around here?”

“I don’t take a lot of days off,” Oliver deadpans.

“Me either.”

She sighs, sinking more deeply into the chair cushions, letting herself slouch for the first time in days, having already abandoned her heels to the floor hours ago. She can feel Oliver staring as she tilts her head and rubs the latest crick in her neck, while trying to reread the new IT service proposal for the tenth time. What is with her today? She could read this document in her sleep.

“That is a lot of paperwork,” Oliver quietly observes, distracting her with his perfect voice that is the vocal equivalent of the perfect latte, frothy and warm and sweet.

She groans, and it must come out louder than she intended, because then he says, “Something I can help with? I do run a business.”

Felicity chuckles. “Not unless you’ve magically learned JavaScript in the last seventy-two hours.”

He shakes his head apologetically no.

Suddenly, he’s invading her personal space, and she manages to get a whiff of what has to be the greatest aftershave scent or deodorant or some insane Oliver pheromonic concoction. Whatever it is, it’s a lot. And it’s gone in an instant, in the amount of time it takes for her brain to come up with all kinds of crazy ideas regarding his _intentions_ and for him to pull the document right out of her limp hands and set it on the table.

He settles into the cushioned chair catty-cornered to hers. “Five minutes,” he says. “If I get a break, so do you.”

Here come the flutters again. Only, these flutters are warmer, more cheerful than straight-up nerves. She tips her head as she asks, “What are we going to talk about, if not work...and, you know, the other thing--the _technology_ thing. In case you thought I was referring to something else, which I was not.”

She slams her eyes shut, and when she opens them again Oliver gives her a quick smirk.

“I don’t know. You pick.”

She nibbles on her bottom lip for a bit, until finally she says, “How did you get started in this?” Technically, it’s not exactly a work-related question. Okay, maybe it is. But she’s aching to know. After weeks of reading every single book he’s carefully and intently places into her open hands, she wants to know _his_ story. And thankfully, he indulges her. He gives her everything.

“My parents died while I was still in college.”

She gasps. “Oh, Oliver, I’m...I’m so sorry.”

“So there I was, a sophomore with only a handful of business credits and no actual life skills to make money and support me and my sister. My parents had set money aside for us, but I wasn’t supposed to inherit anything until I was twenty-one. So I went through the family library and started selling first editions and heirlooms… It was just supposed to be temporary, just something to keep us afloat till I inherited my money. But I don’t know, somewhere along the way...I found I liked it. The coffee shop addition was Thea’s idea. She said I should start selling some baked goods, that my talents were being wasted on her when they could be pandering to the masses.”

He chuckles. “She’s always had more of a flare for business than I have.”

“Wait, you _bake_ all of those? Every day? By yourself?”

He shrugs, ever modest, self-deprecating to a fault.

“No, Oliver, like those are professional quality muffins. Okay. I’m not just saying that. You are talking to a girl who has sampled literally every coffee shop in this city. I know quality content when I taste it. Just to be clear that is not a euphemism.”

He smiles from behind the hand holding his jaw, eyes crinkling, ears spreading.

“Oliver, have you ever considered maybe making your business a little less bookish and a little more...bakery?”

He drops his hand, giving her a clear _no_ look.

“Don’t get me wrong, the whole second-hand bookshop makes for a great ambiance. But this could be a way to really reel in some income.”

“I thought the WiFi was supposed to help with that?”

She waves off that comment. “WiFi is just a basic American right at this point. Seriously, that shouldn’t even be a question. This is about taking your business to the next level.”

Oliver shakes his head, and they settle into a different kind of silence. Not bad. Just different.

She can tell he’s got something on his mind, but he takes his time getting his thoughts in order before leaning just a hair closer to her, his eyes lingering somewhere above her collarbone, a not-quite-a-smile, not-quite-a-grimace pinching at the corner of his lips. _He’s nervous_ , she realizes.

“Felicity. Can I ask you a question?”

She licks her lips, nodding, unable to form a verbal reply with her heart clogging her throat.

“Will you… Would you like to…”

Oh. Is he really, finally, truly going to ask her?

“Would you like to install my WiFi?”

 _What?_ Her heart drops to her stomach with disappointment.

But in the next second, it picks up again with renewed glee. She doesn’t know where this sudden burst of attitude change has come from, but she is not going to waste it. “Oh, Oliver. I thought you’d never ask,” she laughs. “Eeee!” Before he can protest, she launches herself into his chair to give him a hug, breaking away just as his fingertips start brushing against her back. “Okay, how much bandwidth are you aiming for?”

“What?” He looks overwhelmed already, poor guy.

“Nevermind, I’ll just get the best router that BestBuy currently has in stock. No doubt some teenage boy is gonna try to pull a fast one on me. How do you feel about bluetooth? Oh, and you should really consider the benefits of setting up two networks, one for visitors and one for regular customers that requires a password. And we will need to discuss advertising. I’m sure I could get some of my business associates’ logos listed on your homepage for _very_ cheap--”

“Felicity.” His hand comes up to rest on her shoulder, like it belongs there. The gentle way he utters her name and the soft glimmer behind his eyes send all her racing thoughts to a screeching halt. Her brain has officially crashed, and only Oliver can reboot her system.

“Just the WiFi.”

It's a start. It's a compromise.


End file.
